And maybe—just maybe—I would be okay.

I sat at the edge of the bed, dressed in the black gown I hadn’t taken off in days. It had been two months since Mrs. Margaret Edgewood, the woman who had been like a mother to me, passed away. And I hadn’t left my room since the funeral. The outside world felt distant, like a memory that no longer belonged to me.

My world had shrunk to the size of this room, this bed. I couldn’t shake the hollow emptiness that settled in my chest like a permanent weight. Grief had consumed me, and with each passing day, it grew harder to remember what it was like to feel anything else.

The door creaked open, and I glanced up just in time to see Henry stepping inside. His face softened the moment he saw me, concern etched into every line of his expression. He walked slowly toward me, as though afraid that too much movement might cause me to break.

"Hey," he said softly, sitting down on the bed next to me. His presence was calming and familiar, and for a moment, I felt a small spark of warmth.

“Hey,”